Cyrill Stalkwell, The Life And Times Of
by biggstrek
Summary: The Life And Times Of Cyrill Stalkwell is a brief character history I wrote for an old AD&D character I had years ago; a rather amusing Elven MagicUser Thief... I hope you enjoy.


THE LIFE AND TIMES OF  
CYRILL STALKWELL  
  
Cyrill's early childhood was one of unremarkable character and little interest to anyone. As any elf knows, the rigours of growing up are better left forgotten than dragged up and used to induce violent vomiting. After all, a typical elven childhood can last for several long and very tedious decades.  
  
So, after the uneventful raising of Cyrill, this young elf, just 75 years old, decided he wanted to make something of himself. No, thought he, I'll not be like my cousin Rastill and take up embroidery, even though he did a lovely job on hankies! Neither shall I spend the rest of my near eternal life hunting down the lost Vynacular Winged Butterfly-Dragon, as my dear old brother, Herrill, did. (Please note well, dear reader, that the beloved brother of Cyrill died whilst searching out a possible nesting place of this most rare of Butterfly-Dragons...Vynacular Winged Butterfly- Dragons are rumoured to nest only on shear cliff faces...)  
  
After many sleepless years, Cyrill eventually decided on a career that was startling in its vitality, originality and destructivity. He knew it to be right, he knew it to be him. Yes, you guessed it; he vowed to become a Lumberjack! What better career for an up and coming elf?  
  
But, alas, poor Cyrill was never to progress far in his chosen career. The nearsighted, close-eared, (though pointy!) closeted attitudes of his elders and peers stopped Cyrill in his tracks. They said he couldn't just go around chopping down trees, defoliating forests and ruining the homes of thousands of innocent woodland creatures. But Cyrill disagreed, Of course I can!, said he, and promptly did.  
  
From that day on, Cyrill's family has denied any knowledge of his existence. Casting him out on to the street, they broke all ties of loyalty and protection to the young elf. (Fear not, dear reader, as 90% of elves are thrown out of home at least 10 times in a lifetime - usually just to relieve the monotony.) As a parting gesture, however, Cyrill decided to take a little something with him as a reminder, or keepsake. He surreptitiously took possession of the Dagger Of The Eastern Sky; a most valuable and sacred family heirloom. Needless to say, if anything should happen to this prize of the ILL dynasty, Cyrill's real chance of being reunited with them would be nil.  
  
With nowhere in the city to stay and no forest to go and hide in, (its remnants having been promptly sold by the city council) Cyrill roamed the streets of his hometown in search of excitement. After weeks of endless walking, the elf roamed into the murkier side of town and eventually met up with some very strange and interesting characters.  
  
"Ooo, what a pretty little thing!" said one, "I wonder if he'll be friends with us?" he slavered, looking Cyrill over with hungry eyes. But before he could reach into his pocket to pull out a boiled sweetie, Cyrill whipped out the Dagger and, with deft strokes, slashed each villain's right index finger!  
  
"Hey, stop that! It ain't manners to go around slashing villains' index fingers! 'Specially the right one!" Pause, "Nice dagger ya got, though... Wanna join our group?"  
  
After a short debate over the joining fee - rejected by unanimous vote - Cyrill entered a new field of endeavour: thievery. His newfound comrades were quick to take him in, and, after more discussion, decided to rename the group The Pink Tea Leaves.  
  
"We used to be known as The Red Rangers, but none of us could qualify," explained Friedal Belltone, a tall and handsome man. "And once we assumed the name Aquarian's Anonymous, but after consulting with our local astrologer, we found that only Fwitzful, our current leader, was an Aquarian - funny, he suggested that one. For the last six months, in fact, we've been truly anonymous!"  
  
With these details finally put to rest, The Pink Tea Leaves put their minds to the task of professional burglary. Surprising themselves, they actually conceived a workable plan: and set about implementing it...  
  
* * *  
  
The night of the theft was cold and damp. All six members of the 'Leaves huddled in their respective positions, waiting for the signal from Fwitzful The Fast. Time went all too slow for this little band of thieves. But finally the signal whistle blew!  
  
Action!  
  
The thieves silently approached the building; skulking, slinking and weaving through the shadows. Cyrill followed the lanky Friedal, trying to mimic his every move, and understand the logic of these actions (so far, to little avail). Before long, they were upon the darkened structure. Fwitzful attempted to jimmy the window, but due to a slight miscalculation, failed. So Friedal tried, but couldn't quite get the right hold on the jimmy. Next came Boris, the dwarf: he successfully bent the jimmy! Grenthor Tielon then had a shot: failed on account of his bad back, he said. The damaged jimmy was then passed on to Timkin the half orc. With a grin and a growl, Timkin deftly jammed the jimmy into the brickwork six inches below the window and pushed. Naturally, the jimmy broke (Timkin was never known for a vast intellect.)  
  
With desperation and pleading in their eyes, the 'Leaves turned to Cyrill, hoping for a miracle. So Cyrill went to the window, noticed the crustacean of paint about the frame, and carefully chipped it away, freeing the window. A gentle push later and the group had access to the building.  
  
Gratitude flooding from their eyes, the 'Leaves quickly rushed through the window, setting off alarm bells, man-traps and a myriad of other related anti-theft devices.  
  
In the city guard house some time later, Cyrill asked Friedal how many thefts the group had attempted in the past.  
  
"Including this one?" he replied, "One."  
  
The Pink Tea Leaves were sentenced to imprisonment in the local gaol for 40 years. All their possessions were confiscated, including Cyrill's bejewelled Dagger Of The Eastern Sky, taken by the captain of the city guard. Cyrill's chances of returning home dwindled.  
  
* * *  
  
Four decades on, the 'Leaves decided it was time to retire (especially since most of them were either dead or suffering from acute arthritis.) Cyrill, now a mere 115 years, packed a cut lunch and headed for the hills to take it easy for a season or two and think things over (like how he was going to get that damned Dagger back!) For a year he wandered aimlessly, thinking, supposing and singing to himself (not to mention practising his radical finger-painting techniques - but that's another story...) Upon reflection, he eventually decided, Stuff the bloody Dagger, I can live without it and my family can live without me! And so the young elf headed for the mountaintops and all the fun of the frozen peaks. Feeling tired (after all he hadn't slept a wink in forty years - those miserable dungeons get so cold!) Cyrill found a nice cosy Yeti cave, killed and wore the owner, and settled down for a nice snooze...  
  
* * *  
  
Opening his weary eyes some 14 years later, Cyrill was surprised to find himself in a rumbling, dark and bitterly cold place in the care of a kindly old hermit magician.  
  
"Who the Hells are you?" Cyrill asked angrily, "and where the Fiend Folio am I?" (Pretty disgusting language, huh?)  
  
Taking it all in his stride, the old hermit Magic Missiled Cyrill back to his senses, and explained that he had found the young elf in a state of deep hibernation in a collapsing cave and had brought him to the safety of his glacial fortress and had revived him, nurturing him back to health and could put him back there if he didn't watch his language!  
  
"Seeing how you put it that way," conceded Cyrill, "thanks. Ah, what can I do for you in return?"  
  
"Well," replied the magician/hermit, "the old glacier's looking a bit drab. You're an elf, how about a bit of interior decoration?"  
  
Rolling his eyes as if to say Oh no, not again! the poor elf agreed to the task. Using his built in genetic/racial knowledge, Cyrill planned an extensive refit of the rolling glacial catacomb's 200 miles of twisting, continually changing passageways and caves. Together, Cyrill and the hermit began carrying out the design: Cyrill directing; the hermit/magician summoning and controlling the demonic forces involved.  
  
Fifteen years of work and toil later, its finished! Pink walls, grey ceilings and floors, concrete pillars serving no purpose, floral shaped banisters, harpy scented toilet paper, balrog rugs and titan-fist ash trays, jackal sperm chandeliers, the lot. And the hermit was rapted!  
  
"There's only one thing I'm not so crazy about," he said cautiously, not wanting to offend Cyrill, "what the Fiend Folio is that revolting painting on the wall in cave 201b, revision R5A?"  
  
"That's some of my radical finger painting," replied Cyrill, somewhat offended, "but that's another story..."  
  
Anyway, in return for Cyrill's hard work and assistance, the old hermit/magician (and he was very old, believe me!) offered the elf an apprenticeship in magic. Barely believing his pointed ears, Cyrill jumped at the opportunity!  
  
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" he thanked.  
  
"Yeah, um, no worries... but please get off your knees, its so undignified," replied the magician, not so sure he hadn't made a big mistake.  
  
* * *  
  
For seven years, Cyrill was the perfect student, studying, practising, and exercising on a daily and regular basis. When he'd eventually memorized all the known cantrips, the hermit allowed him to start on first level spells. But for some unfathomable reason, Cyrill could never quite tap the right energy source, or mana, required for many of the spells. Things looked bleak for his future - maybe he'd have to start felling trees again?  
  
Not allowing the elf to give up, especially after all the effort he'd put into helping him, the hermit/magician, though sickening by the hour, pushed Cyrill to try harder and harder. Four years on the hermit was approaching death and Cyrill seemed no closer to casting a real spell. Was there any hope for the elf? Things were not looking good.  
  
And then, one day, Cyrill found the hermit bedridden, unable to move, his breath spasmodic and rasping. Cyrill realised the hermit was dying.  
  
"You can't die now!" pleaded Cyrill, his eyes brimming with tears, "I still can't even cast Read Magic!" (Cyrill was never well known for his sympathy)  
  
"F- f- f- f-," answered the magician/hermit, "f- f- fear not young e- e- e- " and promptly kicked the bucket.  
  
"Bloody typical," said Cyrill to the corpse of his benefactor, "I suppose that's the end of the apprenticeship then?"  
  
"Yes, young Cyrill," replied the corpse, much to Cyrill's embarrassment and surprise, "but take the scroll from between my already rotting and decaying hands, and use it wisely... Goodbye dear elf!" With that the corpse of the hermit erupted into a cloud of dust.  
  
Brushing the hermit's dust from his clothes, Cyrill took the scroll reverently from the hermit's bed, slowly and religiously backed out of the room, his head bowed, and ripped the top off the scroll case!  
  
Eagerly reading the ancient parchment, Cyrill quickly devoured its contents with his eyes and mind. A lot of the reading was just gibberish to him, but the last line he could understand. It kind of went like this: "... and having read ye ancient scroll, thy spell releaseth its power to thine surroundings. Oh, and I forgot to mention, its a DELAYED BLAST FIREBALL! - RUN!!"  
  
Cyrill then broke the land speed record of an unpowered elf in a straight line.  
  
* * *  
  
Cyrill stopped running when he eventually ran out breath - five years later. When his shock eventually left him, the elf decided to continue his study of magic - he wasn't going to be beaten that easily! Finding himself in an unfamiliar forest, he fell a few trees, just for fun, and then decided to build a log hut. Locking himself in with only a weekly supply of iron rations he'd found, Cyrill studied for eleven years, teaching himself from scratch, the basic mechanics of magic.  
  
And one day, Cyrill let off a Push: his second spell (the first having devastated the hermit's glacial fortress). A celebration is in order, he thought, I'm going to let my hair down - and get it out of this bun!  
  
Cyrill set out for the nearest town, a town he'd never seen or heard of before. It brought him to wondering just where he was and where his home was. Homesickness then overwhelmed him, and a sense of loss a well. With a mixture of grief and bitterness, Cyrill entered the local tavern and drank till he dropped - two years later. Rehabilitation took another six years.  
  
When he'd sobered up he looked at the world anew, and thought it was good. He also decided to go home, recover the Ill Dynasty Dagger, and regain his pride and his family. After all, I've got nothing better to do!, he thought.  
  
* * *  
  
Cyrill joined up with a brave and fearless group of adventurers, but they didn't want him. So he joined a group of misfits and rebels (without cause or name) and adventures with them to this day. With them he hopes to one day return home and recover The Dagger Of The Eastern Sky and maybe mince around for a while too! 


End file.
